


Love is a Changer

by Euphorion



Series: Polyamory [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Takao, Blow Jobs, Fate & Destiny, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, M/M, Matchmaker Midorima, Misunderstandings, Monogamy, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphorion/pseuds/Euphorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically a piece of the Polyamory 'verse, although other than a mention of the aokagakuro trio and Kise's feelings for them there is zero polyamory in this one, because if there's one monogamous pairing in all of knb it's these two.</p><p>Takes place during and after <i>A Brother in Arms</i>, almost entirely after all the others. Again, you can absolutely read this without those, or read all of them in any order you like. This is probably the least attached to the others, which are sort of meant to be read as a trio.</p><p>Title is from a different Anais Mitchell song, <i>Changer</i>.</p><p>+</p><p>  <i>Midorima knew that his purpose was an inward one, a self-serving one, and while it led to certain benefits—fame, money, the satisfactions of excellence—his fate did not include things like friendship or love. People who were destined for love were those with outwards purpose, whose talents lay in working with and helping others. </i></p><p>  <i>It was only after he reached Shutoku that he realized a truth he had overlooked: being destined not to be loved did not, after all, mean being destined not to love.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is a Changer

Midorima Shintarou was good at one thing.

He was _very_ good at it—he was, and was acknowledged to be, miraculous at it. He’d centered his life around it. As far as he was concerned, he was a left hand with a body attached, and that was fine—he had nothing but contempt for those with no clear picture of their purpose in the world and no clear plan for creating the circumstances that would allow them to succeed in that purpose.

But he also knew that his purpose was an inward one, a self-serving one, and while it led to certain benefits—fame, money, the satisfactions of excellence—his fate did not include things like friendship or love. People who were destined for love were those with outwards purpose, whose talents lay in working with and helping others. 

Kuroko Tetsuya was destined for love, and Midorima watched him find it—once with Aomine, and then, when Aomine’s self-centered purpose drove them apart, with Kagami Taiga, whose own purpose appeared to be Aomine’s flipped inside out—being the best not just for his own sake, but for the sake of those he loved.

Midorima admired that, on a level where admiration did not require understanding. He continued to move through his life carefully, making sure to be exactly who the stars meant him to. 

It was only after he reached Shutoku that he realized a truth he had overlooked: being destined not to be loved did not, after all, mean being destined not to love.

+

“Oi, Taka-kun,” Midorima heard someone outside the classroom drawl, “you waiting for your boyfriend?”

He stilled in the act of erasing the blackboard. He hadn’t even realized Takao was there—he wasn’t really surprised that he was, it was a rare day that they didn’t walk home together, but this wasn’t really a pleasant way to find out.

“That’s right,” Takao said evenly, “so fuck off, now.”

Midorima slid the eraser to the end of the board and placed it carefully on the tray beneath, then picked up his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He took a long breath in and then released it, waiting for his heart to slow.

He slid the door of the classroom open with a sudden snap. The upperclassman was glaring at Takao, apparently at a loss, and leapt back a little when Midorima appeared. 

Midorima raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you need something?”

The upperclassman looked like he was going to say something, but glanced again at Midorima’s height and thought better of it, turning away with a mutter that might have been _fuck_ and might have been _fag_ and was meant with the same amount of disgust either way.

Takao looked up at him, smiling. “Hey.”

Midorima glanced at him and then away, leading him down the hall. “You shouldn’t encourage them.”

“Encourage them?” Takao laughed. “Getting mad would be encouraging them, that’s what they want. You gotta agree with them, but like. Reframe it so it’s not bad, because it isn’t. They don’t know what to do with that.”

Midorima turned to frown at him. “But surely confirming the rumors will not stop them from spreading.”

Takao smirked. “Who says I want to stop them from spreading? Maybe I like people thinking I landed the star of the basketball team.” He fluttered his eyelashes ridiculously. “He’s so _tall_ , and his hair is so _green_ —“

“Takao,” said Midorima warningly. He was not going to blush.

Takao subsided, his face slipping from laughing into something more cautious. “Does it bother you, Shin-chan?”

Midorima turned away from him, silent, because he had no idea whatsoever how to answer that. Taken at face value, being thought to be involved with Takao bothered him not in the slightest—if anything, it was flattering. Takao was talented, easy-going, and very beautiful, and the combination made him popular with their classmates. Then again, the ridicule it brought on both their heads from the misinformed and the bigoted was not exactly welcome—although it was something Midorima would happily face, if only the rumors were true, because actually being involved with Takao would be worth—well. Much more than a few derisive remarks.

If he were being truthful he would say _the rumor bothers me where the reality would not_ , but then Takao would know and would pity him, and if there was one thing in the world Midorima could not stand it was pity.

“Sorry,” said Takao, and Midorima looked over his shoulder at him. He was smiling, a little, but it was somehow off, a little distant. “I’ll start telling them it’s bullshit, yeah? Maybe I have been making it worse.” He took a little breath. “I guess I should go, then, too, it doesn’t help to have me always—“ he flapped a hand, “—around.”

Midorima scowled at him. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said, irritated. “You’re walking home with me, and you don’t have to say anything to anyone on my behalf.” He scowled harder, angry at himself for waiting so long to answer and making Takao so uncertain. “You think I can’t handle myself?”

Takao stared at him for a minute and then grinned, trotting forward a few steps so they were side by side again. He nudged Midorima’s side. “Shin-chan wants to me walk him ho-ome,” he teased, sing-song.

Midorima glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you prefer, we’ll take the rickshaw.”

Takao held up his hands in surrender. “I yield, I yield!” His grin was real, though, and Midorima turned his eyes forward again, pleased to have restored it.

He was pretty sure the rumors were his fault, anyway—it wasn’t right for Takao to have to deal with them when it was clear that it was his own failure at keeping his feelings under wraps that led to the rumors in the first place. Someone must have seen him watching Takao, or smiling at him; must have seen the longing in his face that he thought he’d been able to hide. 

He would have to do better. He _would_ do better; and then the rumors would die, and with them this new—awful, exhilarating, awful—tendency of Takao’s to mock him by _flirting._

“Hey,” said Takao, “let’s go in here.” He jerked his head at a corner store, his eyebrows raised. “Right?”

Midorima blinked at him, puzzled.

Takao cocked his head. “Shin-chan, are you feeling alright? Your lucky item, remember?”

Midorima pushed up his glasses. “Of course,” he snapped, off-balance. He _had_ been meaning to stop here—or down the block, or any number of other places—but he’d gotten distracted by his own failings.

Takao had remembered his lucky item. He stalked past him so as not to think too hard about that.

He bought the carbonated drinks quickly, almost angrily, passing one to Takao. He turned, about to leave, when Takao said easily, “Kuroko-kun, hello.”

Midorima blinked. Kuroko was standing in snacks aisle, one hand raised in greeting. “Midorima-kun,” he said with a nod. “Takao-kun.”

Kagami rounded the end of the aisle. “Kuroko, they’re out of vanilla, you want chocolate or strawberry—“ he stopped when he saw them, surprised. “Oh, hey.”

Midorima scowled, pushing up his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

Takao glanced at him in surprise, and he knew he was being unnecessarily harsh but this day was bad enough, the last thing he needed was to see this—living demonstration of what he could not have.

“Don’t be rude, Midorima-kun,” Kuroko said mildly. “Kagami-kun and I are taking Number Two to the vet, and we stopped for shakes.”

Midorima blinked at him, and then at the little dog sitting happily between his feet. Takao gave a little pleased “oh!” and crouched down, holding out a hand to him.

“Do they allow dogs in here?” Midorima asked, raising an eyebrow at Kuroko. Number Two rubbed his head happily against Takao’s hands and Takao made little inane noises at him. It was extremely cute. Midorima clenched his jaw.

Kuroko shrugged. “I walked past the front with him and they didn’t care.”

Kagami rolled his eyes. “Not exactly an indication of anything,” he pointed out. “Either way, we should probably go. Kuroko, strawberry, or?”

Kuroko sighed, his shoulder slumping. “If there’s no vanilla, there’s barely a point,” he said despondently, and reached out to take Kagami’s hand. “I’ll just have half of yours.”

Kagami laced their fingers together, scowling. “I don’t remember agreeing to that plan,” he protested, but let Kuroko pull him away. Number Two gave Takao’s hand a last lick and trotted after them.

Takao straightened up with a sigh, his face soft as he watched them go. “I love dogs.”

Midorima indulged himself, letting his eyes run over the planes of his face. “You should wash your hand,” he said absently. “Unhygienic.”

Takao turned and tugged at Midorima’s shirt, untucking it, and then used the ends to wipe off his hand. He looked up at Midorima sideways, too close. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, sly, and then slid away, wandering out the door to the chime of the bell.

Midorima fought the urge to kick over a display of snacks, tucked his shirt back in, and followed him out.

+

Shutoku had a practice game against Kaijo, and he and Takao worked better together than they ever had. It was the first game at Shutoku where he felt the same on the court as he had at the height of Teiko’s success, before Kuroko had left. He almost felt _better_ —where Kuroko had always been able to get him the ball, without fail, there were times when they had to rely on passes that even Midorima’s miraculous left couldn’t catch, passes that he was not chosen for. Shutoku prioritized him— _Takao_ prioritized him—and he felt absolutely unstoppable.

It helped that something was clearly wrong with Kise. Not physically—he got faster and stronger every time they played, the same way Midorima did, the same way they all did, keeping their unspoken vow. But he was—off, distracted, dull. The dedicated fans that had followed him to Shutoku to watch him play got barely a wave and a distant smile for their trouble.

Midorima watched him, and watched his captain—Kasamatsu?—watch him. Watched Kasamatsu frown, watched him send the fans on their way at halftime and then cross to Kise, his voice sharp but his eyes worried. He saw Kise rally enough to give him a wider smile, watched Kasamatsu not believe it but back off anyway. He saw Kasamatsu make sure Kise had water and a fresh towel, saw him order the rest of the team away to let Kise take his time, saw him linger at the door to the locker room, his lip between his teeth and his face drawn with concern.

“Shin-chan?” Takao asked, nudging him with a knee. “What’s up?”

Midorima glanced at him—at the brightness in his eyes, the sweat shining on his skin—and looked back at Kise. It was safer. “I am simply observing the competition.”

The more complicated answer was that he was observing—an anomaly. Kise, whom he had long assumed was, like him, foreordained by his own self-centered destiny to be always unfulfilled in his longings—Kise appeared to be loved.

He followed Takao into the locker room and tucked his lucky rabbit totem into his palm, pressing it into his skin in an attempt to remain certain of the turning of the world.

+

He kept it in the back of his head, a problem to be worked over in his spare moments. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Kise’s purpose. Perhaps he was misreading Kasamatsu. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He hated perhapses, hated uncertainties, hated even the possibility that he had been wrong.

When he and Takao attended the absolutely brutal game between Seirin and Kirasaki Daichi, he sought Kise in the stands. He found his team—Kasamatsu in the center, an empty seat to his left—and frowned, scanning elsewhere. A flash of gold on a higher stand, and closer—Kise stood staring down, not at the game but at something on the sidelines. Midorima followed the tilt of his chin and saw the distinctive sweep of Momoi’s pink hair, and at her side Aomine, radiating a kind of calm Midorima had not seen on him in years. 

He looked back at Kasamatsu, and found him staring up at Kise as well. 

This was wrong. If he was correct—if Kise _was_ loved—he was not letting himself see it, and that was _wrong_. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” he murmured to Takao, and found his way through the winding hallways and stairwells until he found the floor where he’d seen Kise.

He was still there, still staring downwards, and Midorima stepped up behind him. "You are limiting yourself unnecessarily,” he said without preamble.

Kise turned, looking surprised. "Midorimacchi?"

Midorima took a step forward so he was standing beside Kise, but kept watching the game below. This was a delicate subject, and one he was not entirely confident in tackling.

Kise was squinting at him. "I don't think you're one to lecture me on working with a team—"

"I do not mean only on the court," Midorima interrupted. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

Kise sighed, embarrassed. "Am I so obvious?"

Midorima watched Kuroko slip between two players like a darting fish and ricochet the ball to Kagami. "You always have been," he said bluntly, and then paused, frowning. Maybe that was the key—Kagami and Kuroko—although it might be painful for Kise to hear. "Calling us the Generation of Miracles was misleading."

Kise raised his eyebrows and waited.

Midorima raised a bandage-wrapped hand to push his glasses up his nose. "We fell into the trap of thinking ourselves alone at the top, of thinking ourselves apart from the rest of our real generation. We began to think that we were the only ones worthy of respect, that we could only truly relate to one another." He looked sideways at Kise. "We were wrong. Kuroko and Kagami have proven that."

He paused. This was the hard part, the part that made his heart pound, because he’d never—said it, not even so obliquely as this. "There are others worthy of our love," he managed. "Keep that in mind."

He turned and left, pushing his way through the door to the stairwell before Kise could say anything. He blinked. Takao was leaning against the wall outside, smiling at him. “Shin-chaan,” he drawled, and Midorima raised a hand to his face to check that his blush had receded. “What were you talking about?

Midorima stepped past him. “There was something he needed to hear,” he said, “so I told him.”

Takao quirked his eyebrows at him. “That was kind of you,” he said.

Midorima thought about that as he watched Seirin pull ahead, like they were meant to, like they always would, and take their rightful place in the finals. _Kind._ Had it been? He supposed—mostly it had seemed necessary, mostly it had seemed like something Midorima had to do, because if he hadn’t, Kise would not have known. Would not have been able to be—as he should be, would not have been able to be happy.

When had he started to care about Kise’s happiness? When had he started to care about anyone’s, other than his own?

The answer, when it came—halfway through the walk back home, awash in early sunset—was obvious.

Midorima stopped, and turned to look at him.

For a moment Takao kept walking, his face tilted upward, his blue eyes tracking the flight of a few birds winging overhead. He was always _watching_ , always aware of the flow of motion around him. It was part of what made him so captivating—he was never at odds with his surroundings, moving entirely in harmony with the general motion of the universe. Even now, when he stopped in surprise, it was somehow an extension of the wind shifting in the tree beside him, a singing chord formed in reaction to Midorima’s own sudden, uncoordinated halt.

Takao raised his eyebrows. “Shin-chan?”

“Takao,” said Midorima, and of all the times he had ever wished he were better at expressing himself this was perhaps the most fervent. “I want to thank you.”

Takao smiled, a little puzzled. “For what?”

Midorima took a breath, glaring at the road between Takao’s feet. “When I came to Shutoku I was—not easy to get along with.” He raised a hand to forestall any comment. “I have spent the majority of my life assuming that there was no benefit to letting anyone in, that any relationships I allowed myself would only distract me from my goals. I thought that if I were going to be the best I could be, I needed to focus entirely on my own skill, my own ability.” He raised his eyes, meeting Takao’s as squarely as he could. “You showed me that I was wrong,” he said. “Not just in basketball, but in life. When I am with you I am someone who I am infinitely more comfortable being than I ever thought possible. You—make me better.”

Takao stared at him in utter stillness for a long moment. “Shin-chan,” he said at last, his voice a little weak, almost nervous, “I—“ he cut himself off.

Midorima blinked at him. “Yes?”

Takao shook his head and glanced away, running a hand through his hair. “You make me better, too, you know.”

Midorima frowned at him. What? That made no sense. Takao had already been— _Takao_ , when they’d met, had already been laughing and graceful and irritating and perfect, and any effect Midorima had was surely negative, bringing him down and raising all those stupid rumors because he couldn’t keep himself well enough under control. “No,” he said, without really meaning to.

Takao seemed to pull himself together at that, the little flush to his cheeks (god, had he really made him that uncomfortable?) fading as he looked at Midorima again, confused. “What do you mean?”

Midorima pressed his lips together. “I don’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t, I don’t know how.” He looked down at his left hand, spreading his fingers and staring at the neat lines of his bandages. “I am good at one thing, and it is certainly not helping others.” He felt—hurt, and disappointed in himself. Responding with a platitude like that! Takao must not have realized how sincere he was, how much he really meant it. He closed his fingers, frustrated.

Takao slid into his space like he’d always been there, like there was nowhere more natural for him to be, and even upset Midorima felt a little guilty thrill at that. Takao hip-checked him, and he looked up to see him frowning. “You’re kidding, right?”

Midorima blinked at him. “Kidding?”

Takao flashed a mocking grin. “Sorry, forgot who I was talking to.” He sobered. “I’m serious, though. Shin-chan, c’mon, look at me properly.”

Midorima raised his chin, uncomfortably aware of how much more this conversation made his heart pound when Takao was inches rather than feet away, when he was looking at him with his sharp eyes gone suddenly soft.

“You have no idea what it was like before you showed up,” Takao said quietly, his voice, like the rest of him, only a melodic piece of the symphony of the world around them. “You have no idea what a difference it made to have someone to rely on, someone who I know, I _know_ , will always make the shots I give him.” He smiled a little. “No use knowing what’s happening on the court if I can’t depend on anyone to make the play, right?”

Midorima squinted at him. “I suppose—“

“Seriously,” Takao interrupted, and Midorima would have been affronted at that if he could manage to look away from the little earnest line between Takao’s eyebrows, if his mouth weren’t so dry, “you were so much of why I worked hard to get to where I am, and now that you’re _here_ , you—you ground me so much, on and off the court. I don’t—I can’t—“ he laughed a little, his eyes warming so suddenly and so completely that Midorima could swear he felt his own temperature rise in response. Maybe that was the key, he thought, a little dazed, maybe instead of Takao fitting himself to the world the world fit itself to Takao. 

“Cut me loose now and I might drift away into the sky,” Takao joked, his tongue darting into the corner of his smirk.

Midorima scowled at him to avoid doing anything else, anything rash and foolish and unwarranted and _unwanted_. “Why would I cut—“

“Did I really hear you say you’re only good at one thing?” Takao interrupted again, but this time it was more a relief than an annoyance.

“Of course,” Midorima said, confident in that, at least. “My three-pointer—“

“—is the best of your skills, but by no means your only one,” Takao insisted. “God, have you really been living your life thinking you’re some kind of, of one-trick pony?”

“Yes,” said Midorima, “because I am.” He pushed up his glasses. “An incredible pony, but nonetheless.”

Takao narrowed his eyes at him. “Nope,” he said. “This ends here.” He raised his hands and took Midorima by the shoulders, holding his eyes. “You,” he said deliberately, “are much more than your pretty trick shot. You’re thoughtful, though you’ll kill me for saying so, you’re focused, you are scary smart—like, I’m smart, whatever, I retain information pretty well but I don’t have your, like, processing power. You’re extremely observant about most things—“

“Most things?” Midorima interrupted, taking a page from Takao’s—Takao’s interruption playbook because he really could not continue to just stand there while Takao complimented him with every appearance of sincerity from only a few inches away. He took a firm step backward, putting up a wall of necessity against the guilt and shame that ending physical contact with Takao always brought.

Takao dropped his hands, and for a split second his expression closed and it was like someone had slammed a steel door in Midorima’s face. As quickly as it came it passed, though, and the light in his eyes returned. He looked amused. “Well,” he said, “you’re pretty bad at noticing when people are interested in you.”

“Not so,” Midorima protested.

Takao put his hands slowly into his pockets and cocked his head. “Really.”

Midorima sniffed. “I simply do not see the benefit of spending time with girls who have no interest in my passions,” he explained. “Plus, I have never gotten an offer from anyone with a sufficiently compatible sign. I especially do not see the benefit of _dalliances_. If the fates have told you nothing will come of it, why try?” 

He mentioned neither his surety that nothing would ever come of any kind of romance nor the maddening compatibility between Takao’s sign and his own. His lack of interest in girls at all was something he also thought best not to bring up. It wasn’t that he was worried Takao would mind. He was only worried Takao would notice.

Takao’s mouth worked. Midorima watched him, puzzled, and then completely baffled as Takao started to laugh, dropping his head into one of his palms, his shoulders shaking. “Right,” he said at last, a little strangled, and raised his head again. He took a couple steps forward, reversing their positions, leading Midorima down the road at last.

“What’s funny?” Midorima asked suspiciously, falling in beside him.

Takao waved a hand, not looking at him. “Oh, uh. I-I was just imagining you ‘dallying’.” He put the word in heavy finger quotes. “Flirting and signing autographs all day like Kise. I don’t understand how that guy has had so many girlfriends.”

Midorima blinked at the abrupt subject change. “None of them are real,” he said.

Takao raised his eyebrows, looking at him sideways. “What?”

“Kise’s gay,” Midorima said. “He goes out with girls because they want the prestige of having dated a model and it gives him a cover for the press, he worked it out with his agent. They’re all in on it, it’s very businesslike.” He arched a brow. “Surely you’ve seen the way he looks at Aomine and Kuroko.”

Takao shrugged loosely. The movement shifted his shoulder bag so that it tugged his shirt askew, and Midorima tore his eyes from the moon-pale curve of Takao’s throat and shoulder, the little shadowed hollow of his collarbone. 

“I just figured he was like me,” Takao said casually.

Midorima fixed his glasses, then fixed them again. “Like you?” he asked, carefully neutral.

Takao grinned at the city ahead. “Yeah,” he said, “a student of the school of ‘who cares, so long as they’re hot.’”

Midorima pressed a fist to his heart under the pretense of fixing his own shoulder bag, and didn’t trust himself with anything beyond, “Ah.”

They parted ways at the station, Midorima watching Takao’s back as he vanished down the stairs to his platform. When he was gone he looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

It wasn’t that Takao being interested in men—so casually mentioned, as if it could never have any effect on him at all!—actually changed much of anything. Midorima knew that despite his height he was not exactly a prime specimen of the species; if anything he was too tall, his muscle ropy and awkward on his long body. He was too pale, too serious, too pointed, his eyes too muddy behind unflattering frames. If Takao’s only criteria was _hot_ he was nearly guaranteed to fail to measure up.

But there were many people who wouldn’t, a whole new category of people that could so easily step in and take even what Midorima had of Takao away from him. Takao in a relationship would not wish to walk Midorima home every day. Takao in a relationship would not remember his lucky item, would not wish to study with him, would not flirt with him for lack of any more desirable option.

He’d been surreptitiously preventing Takao from spending any time with girls as best he could, taking advantage of his good nature to send him on ridiculous quests at lunch and free periods, monopolizing his time on weekends and asking him for outlandish favors not only because it was helpful to have someone working with him to perfectly curry the favor of the stars, not only to spend time with him, but because if Takao was with him he couldn’t be with some girl who might offer him something he wanted more than he wanted Midorima’s taciturn company.

Takao being interested in men was overwhelming; Midorima could not possibly prevent him from seeing anyone else at all.

Not only that, but. Takao’s confidence seemed to speak of experience with men, and that was a thought that was overwhelming in another, entirely less rational way. There were, somewhere in the world, men who had kissed Takao. Men who had touched him, men who had made him breathless, who had made him want, who had made him _need_. Who had—satisfied that need.

He sank down in his seat on the train, clenching and unclenching his fists.

+

Kaijo faced off against Touo, and for a few moments Midorima truly believed that Kise might defeat Aomine. But the mirror never quite matched the reality, and Midorima watched Aomine win, again; watched him frustrated, again, in his search for a true rival. But there _was_ something different about him, something more—settled, happier. He left the stadium slowly, thinking. Aomine was like him—his happiness stemmed only from his purpose, and his purpose was stalled, stagnant. What was he missing?

“I don’t care how long you’ve known him, and I definitely don’t care what you think he needs.”

Midorima stopped, about to turn a corner. The voice was vaguely familiar—the one that responded unmistakable.

“Kise doesn’t need shit from me,” Aomine said, annoyed. “Trust me. He’s fine. It was a good game.”

“Yeah,” said the other voice, and Midorima recognized it as Kasamatsu—a very angry Kasamatsu. “It was an incredible game, and you’re a fucking asshole.”

“What,” Aomine drawled, “I should’ve helped him up? Why? He can stand on his own—or if he can’t, he’s got you. You think I should feel bad for the guy just because he’s in love with me? He still _lost_.”

Midorima stiffened. He hadn’t realized Aomine knew about Kise’s feelings. Kasamatsu, too, seemed caught off-guard, but he recovered, spluttering. “You _know?_ ” he snapped. “You know, and you still fucking—flaunt it, rub your shit with Kuroko in his face?”

Midorima frowned. Aomine and Kuroko—?

“Shin-chan! There you—“ 

He spun on Takao, shoving him back against the wall, a hand over his mouth. Takao shifted with him the way he shifted with everything Midorima ever did, his eyes wide above Midorima’s fingers. Midorima glared at him, trying to convey _BE QUIET_ without saying anything himself.

Takao seemed to understand, and Midorima lowered his hand. Takao’s cheeks were flushed—he must have been running to catch up to him—and Midorima got a little caught in the blue in his eyes, staying too close, his other hand still pressed to Takao’s chest, keeping him up against the wall. Takao was staring up at him, lips still parted around the end of his sentence, just—waiting. It would be so, so easy—

“Look,” Aomine said sharply, and Midorima tore his eyes away from Takao’s face, stepping away to peer around the corner, both to better see the conversation and to get his own face under control. Aomine was staring at Kasamatsu with narrowed eyes. “I get it, you care about the guy. So do I. But me an’ Kuroko an’ Kagami, that’s just something he’s gotta get used to. _He_ knows that, so I suggest you wise the fuck up.”

Kasamatsu had both fists clenched at his sides. “You’re not even going to fucking apologize—“

“Why would I?” Aomine tucked his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t do shit. Pass on my compliments, unless it’ll make your head explode.” He turned away, waving a hand in goodbye.

Kasamatsu stared hard at the ground for a long minute, fists clenched, and then muttered something to himself and strode off in the opposite direction.

Midorima shook his head, turning what he’d heard over and over. _You and Kuroko_ , Kasamatsu had said, and that made little enough sense, but Aomine had said _me and Kuroko and Kagami_ , and that made no sense at all.

Takao was at his side. “Shin-chan?” he asked softly. “Why are we hiding?”

Midorima frowned at the ground and pulled out his phone. “I was listening,” he said, pointlessly.

He typed out, _Momoi-san. May I ask you something?_ and sent it, before looking back at Takao. “It seems Aomine may be involved with Kuroko again.” He started walking, his phone in his palm.

Takao raised his eyebrows, falling in beside him. “Again?” he asked. “But what about Kuroko and Kagami?”

Midorima shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Or—I know what I heard, but it makes no sense.”

His phone chimed. _shoot, mido-chan_ , he received, and then _get it? :P_

He rolled his eyes and responded, _Are Aomine and Kuroko dating again?_

“What’d you hear?” Takao asked curiously.

“Aomine and Kuroko were dating at Teiko,” Midorima said absently. “But they broke up. However, what we just overheard indicated that Aomine is not only involved with him but with Kagami as well.”

 _as usual you got it in one,_ Momoi responded to him. _they’ve got some kinda threesome thing worked out with kaga-chan. can’t say I understand it (obviously! lol) but it’s made dai-chan very happy._

Midorima blinked. But that was—impossible.

 _don’t tell him I told you that part,_ Momoi warned, and Midorima slowly put his phone away.

Takao nudged him. “Shin-chan?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

Midorima shook his head, not in negation so much as bafflement. “Apparently it’s true,” he said distantly. “Aomine is dating both of them.”

Takao whistled. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered. “Some of us can’t even get one boyfriend.”

Midorima ignored him. It made no sense. First Kise, now this—his whole theory was falling apart.

Kise he could just about understand. Kise was kind, Kise was thoughtful. Kise was increasingly turning his talents to the benefit of his team and his friends, and arguments could be made that his modeling career had an outward purpose instead of an inward one as well.

But Aomine? Aomine had forever been Midorima’s True Example of a person whose life benefited no one. Aomine was Kagami’s opposite, which is why Kagami had Kuroko and Aomine had—rightfully—lost him. Aomine was selfish and was not getting any less selfish even as he got happier, that much was demonstrated in the conversation they had heard.

He said a distant goodbye to Takao at the station and went home in a daze, his head spinning. By the time he fell asleep he had worked the problem through to its final, inevitable conclusion:

If Aomine could be loved, anyone could be loved, and if anyone could be loved—could he?

Was he?

How would he _know?_

+

It took him a few days to reach a decision, but one day as Takao followed him out of school Midorima paused, thinking quickly. “Takao,” he began, and turned to look at him.

Takao raised his eyebrows. “Shin-chan?”

Midorima licked his lips. “I—have an errand to run, today.”

Takao looked surprised. “Oh yeah? What kind?”

Midorima closed his eyes for a moment and chose directness: “I am going to see Kise,” he said, and then lied, “it does not concern you. Please go home alone.”

He _saw_ Takao recognize the lie, his eyes flickering in shock, and then he said, “Oh. Okay.” He smiled, and for the first time ever Midorima couldn’t feel its warmth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Midorima nodded shortly, feeling guilty, feeling awful, and left him there. Several times on the walk to the train he glanced back over his shoulder, not because he thought Takao would follow him but because he _wasn’t_ , because it felt so wrong not to hear the soft sounds of his feet on the pavement, not to feel his laughing presence a pace or so behind.

He rang Kise’s doorbell. Kasamatsu answered, his hair soft and un-gelled. He frowned at Midorima in surprise. “Ah, Midorima-kun. Can, uh. Can I help you?”

Midorima scowled, although seeing him answered half of his questions by itself, and peered past him. “This is Kise’s apartment, is it not?” he asked archly. “I am here to see him.”

Kasamatsu looked amused. “I look like I could afford this place?” he asked wryly. “He’s in the shower. You’re welcome to come in and wait, though?”

Midorima shifted his bag against his shoulder, uncomfortable. “Actually,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me, if I may ask you something personal?”

Kasamatsu ran a hand through his hair, puzzled. “Uh,” he said, “sure.”

Midorima licked his lips. “You and Kise are dating.”

Kasamatsu stared at him. “That doesn’t really sound like a question. He tell you that?”

Midorima shook his head.

Kasamatsu glanced over his shoulder. “I—“ he swallowed and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what we are, okay? All I know is how I feel, and.” He shrugged. “I would like to be. He’s—well. You know.”

Midorima sighed, impatient. He was pleased for Kise, distantly, but this was not exactly helpful. “I just want to know—how it happened. How you confessed.”

Coloring, Kasamatsu muttered, “I kissed him. After the game against Haizaki.” He shook his head. “He was _amazing_.”

Midorima sighed. This had been a waste of time. If Takao was going to kiss him—if Takao _wanted_ to kiss him—it would surely have happened already. Certainly there had been opportunities. Certainly Midorima had performed amazingly in his presence. He shook his head. “Thank you for your time.”

Kasamatsu gave him a weird look. “No problem,” he said. “You okay? You sure you don’t want to wait and talk to Kise?”

Midorima shook his head. “Another time, perhaps,” he said, and started down the hall. He’d almost reached the stairs when he stopped, turning to look back. “Kasamatsu,” he called.

Kasamatsu paused in the act of closing the door.

“Kise is an idiot,” Midorima said, “and you should tell him how you feel.”

On the train home he pulled out his phone, frowning at it. Carefully, he texted Takao, _I apologize for my terseness earlier. If you are not busy, would you like to get dinner with me?_

He stared at it for a long time before sending it. They’d eaten together before, of course, in the course of hanging out, but—because they always walked home together it was always unambiguously as friends, and this—wasn’t. Mostly he refused to let the weirdness of their parting hang between them a second longer than it had to, but. What if Takao interpreted it as a date?

Did he want him to?

His phone buzzed, and he took a breath, smoothing a hand across his face as if Takao would be able to see his expression through the screen.

_sure! :)_

He frowned. At the very least Takao was no longer angry with him, if he had ever been.

It was a stupid medium, texting. Impossible to tell tone, impossible to read intent. Perhaps he should have called, but that would have leant it weight, and if Takao didn’t read it as a date, he wanted not to have meant it as one, either.

They met up near Midorima’s apartment, as that was the train he was already on. Takao had changed from his school clothes into a loose, wide-necked t-shirt and jeans. He was effortlessly beautiful and he smiled with real warmth and Midorima felt his heart expand to push against his ribs but nothing about any of that was _new._

Five minutes into dinner he received a text from Kise that just said _Midorimacchi???_ and, when Midorima ignored it, a second, longer one. Midorima didn’t even look at it, switching the sound off his phone and tucking it into his bag. 

Takao raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re acting very suspicious today, Shin-chan.”

Midorima scowled. “Just because I am, for once, showing an interest in someone else’s life—“ 

Takao held up his hands. “Okay, okay!” He narrowed his eyes. “He asked you to hide a body.”

Midorima stared at him. “What?”

Takao shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “No,” he said, teasing, “too _unhygienic_.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “He’s got into some crazy drugs at some model party and he needs you to hang onto his stash.”

Midorima glared at him. “ _What?_ ”

Takao tilted his head back to look at the ceiling and Midorima was knocked partially out of his annoyance by the long stretch of his perfect throat, the way his shirt bared his collarbones and the very top of his pecs. “Nah,” Takao continued, “he would definitely ask Aomine for that.”

Midorima swallowed. This was maybe a _date_ and he refused to spend it entertaining Takao’s ridiculous ideas about what Kise’s life was like. “If you must know,” he snapped, “we were talking about—“ he almost said _you_ before he caught himself, redirected onto “—love.” at the last second, which—really was not better. Really _very much_ not better.

Takao lowered his chin and then the rest of himself until all four legs of his chair were on the ground. “Love,” he said, his voice caught in a strange, throaty place halfway between laughing and—something else, something absolutely serious that Midorima couldn’t quite identify.

Midorima raised a shoulder in a shrug, holding his whole body very still so as not to betray anything at all.

Takao watched him for a second, and then asked, “Is Kise in love?”

Midorima slowly took a sip of his water and thought about how to answer that. “I think he believes himself to be perpetually in love,” he said, “but only with those who don’t love him back.” He placed his glass back at his elbow. “I think he has found someone who loves him back, and he doesn’t know what to do.”

Takao brushed his fingers through his hair, not quite meeting his gaze, and nodded. Midorima braced himself for the natural twin to his earlier question, for the inevitable _are you in love?_ that could only end one way because he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ lie to Takao. Not anymore, not about this. 

It never came. Instead, Takao took a little breath and changed the subject, and they spent the rest of their maybe-a-date talking about classes and victories and strategies for upcoming games, and Midorima felt like he was standing on the edge of a knife, chatting like it was normal, unsure of what might tip him to one side and send him plunging to his doom, unsure whether Takao, standing there with him, was even aware of the blade beneath their feet.

Takao said goodbye with a flicker of fingers across Midorima’s shoulders as he passed and that answered absolutely nothing at all.

Kise’s text said, _you’re probably the weirdest relationship-guardian-angel i could ask for but. thank you._

+

He felt a little bit like he was going crazy.

He was trying too hard and he knew it—trying too hard physically, pushing himself to work harder, be better in time for the Winter Cup finals—and now trying too hard mentally and emotionally as well, working himself into a place where he found himself questioning everything he did, everything Takao did, everything they did together because he had been wrong about so many things and if there was the slightest chance he was wrong about this he _needed_ to know.

He sank down on the locker-room bench after practice, about a week after he’d gone to see Kise, and let his head hang forward, stretching out his neck. He was vaguely aware of the rest of the team filing out, and then Takao nudged him with a knee. “Shin-chan? What’s wrong?”

Midorima passed a hand across his eyes. “My head is pounding,” he admitted. “Just give me a moment, I’m sure it will pass.”

Takao crouched beside him. “Give me your hand.”

Midorima blinked at him, but offered up his right hand.

Takao turned it palm-up and wrapped his long, warm fingers around Midorima’s wrist, holding him still, and then pressed his other thumb against the web of skin between Midorima’s index finger and his thumb, massaging it in slow circles, his face intent. Midorima swallowed and felt his lips part, involuntary. He let his eyes slip closed. The pressure brought—not quite relief, but a re-centering of the pain from his skull to the point pressed between Takao’s fingers, and there it was being soothed away, pulled out of him like poison.

He lifted his other hand in silent supplication, and Takao slowed to a stop.

Midorima opened his eyes to see Takao staring at him, eyes wide. “You—are you sure?”

Midorima scowled at him. “Obviously,” he said shortly, because the pain was back again. “I trust you.”

Takao swallowed, blinking rapidly, and then shifted to wrap his fingers around Midorima’s left wrist, and—it wasn’t as if it should be any different, but. His face was different, was almost reverent as he carefully undid Midorima’s bandages. He ran his fingertips feather-soft down Midorima’s bare palm and Midorima’s chest felt tight and strange. 

He closed his eyes again as Takao repeated the massage, but it only made him even more aware of the gentleness of Takao’s grip on his wrist, the shift of his callouses against his skin. He swallowed and gave in; let himself relish Takao’s touch in a way he never allowed himself to, let his mind to be pulled into that point of pressure like his pain was, let himself just—feel.

His headache faded. He considered not saying anything, just letting Takao continue to work his hand with his clever fingers for—forever, really, but this was Takao he was talking about and he would notice, maybe already had noticed—Midorima was sure he had a million tells that told Takao whether or not he was in pain. He took a long, regretful breath—

—and felt something soft, impossibly soft, press into the center of his palm for just an instant. He blinked his eyes open in shock. _Lips_ —

Takao was pushing himself to his feet, his eyes on the floor, as Midorima sat up straighter, staring at him. Had he imagined— _no_. Takao had shaken his hair into his face but through its curtain his cheeks were flushed. “Feeling better, Shin-ch—“ he started, and then Midorima stood up.

Takao stopped, looking up at him in surprise, and Midorima used his right hand to push Takao’s hair from his face, really looking at him. Takao’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing darker. 

“I think I know what you meant,” Midorima said, and for the first time in his life felt—a piece of the world around him, drawn into Takao’s flawless rhythm with the press of his mouth against his palm. “About me being bad at noticing.”

His hand slid lower, cupping Takao’s throat, and he felt it against the heel of his hand when Takao swallowed. He raised his left hand, still bare, to trace shaking fingertips over Takao’s mouth.

Takao’s lips parted at his touch, his eyelids dipping but not closing. He barely seemed to be breathing, and Midorima knew how he felt. He ran his middle finger along the plump curve of Takao’s lower lip. “Soft,” he murmured, and leaned in to kiss him.

Takao’s hands came up to bury themselves in his hair immediately, and what Midorima had intended to be a rather straightforward, chaste kiss—a declaration of intent, and a little guilty indulgence re: what those lips might feel like against his own—turned into something else entirely. If he had allowed himself to concentrate on the sensation of Takao’s hands on his own, the sensation of Takao’s _mouth_ on his own overwhelmed him with no permission asked. Takao pulled him in closer and slid his tongue against the seam of Midorima’s lips and into his mouth and Midorima’s breath stuttered in through his nose in shock—less at the action itself and more at how it _felt_ , how it set his whole body trembling. He attempted to return the favor, sliding his tongue against Takao’s, and Takao made a little pleased noise that Midorima could feel, feel against his mouth and against his palm where it was still pressed to Takao’s throat.

His glasses were shoved uncomfortably into his face and he pulled back a little to breathe and get himself under control. Takao didn’t open his eyes for a long moment, his breath coming shaky through slick lips, and Midorima’s heart was entirely too loud and too large for his chest. “Ah,” he said, feeling that something was called for, and licked his lips. “Um—shit.”

Takao did open his eyes, then, a graceful upward sweep of lashes too long for anyone to find acceptable. His gaze settled warm on Midorima’s face. “You cursed,” he pointed out, a delighted, low drawl that made Midorima shiver.

He scowled. The effect was spoiled a little by the fact that he was still cupping Takao’s face, palm along his jaw. “I curse,” he protested.

Takao shook his head, and shifted a little so he could press another kiss to Midorima’s palm. “You don’t,” he said, a little muffled. “It’s part of your, like, weird speaking thing, I dunno, you’re so into sounding so prim and correct all the time.” Midorima could feel him smile, and that—that was. He shifted his palm so he could feel the full curve of it, and then realized he had his hand over half of Takao’s face. 

“Shut up, Takao,” he said, rather unnecessarily.

Takao rolled his eyes at him and wrapped his hand again around his wrist, lifting it away and pushing Midorima back in general until his knees hit the bench. He sank down, Takao leaning over him, standing between his knees. “I like that I made you curse,” Takao murmured, sliding in close the way only he could. “Let me see if I can do it again.”

He lifted Midorima’s glasses from his face, placing them carefully on the bench beside him, and Midorima blinked, staring up at him. He was the only thing in focus, now, the only clear thing in a blurred world, and Midorima smiled at how appropriate that was. 

Takao stopped in the middle of leaning in to kiss him again, his eyes a little wide. “You’re smiling.”

Midorima narrowed his eyes at him. “Of course I’m smiling,” he snapped, “I’m _happy._ ”

For a moment he thought Takao might laugh at him—the tremble in his mouth was right—but his eyes weren’t dancing, his eyes were filled with a kind of disbelieving tenderness that made Midorima’s whole chest fill with light. When Takao kissed him it was soft and slow and thorough, and he pulled back after a minute to press little kisses across Midorima’s cheekbones and nose and throat, breathing shakily between them, staying so close Midorima couldn’t really see his face. His hands were clutching at Midorima’s shirt, clenching and unclenching, and when his cheek brushed Midorima’s it was wet.

Midorima planted a hand on his chest and pushed him back a little. Takao resisted at first, but then went, swiping a hand across his face.

“Takao,” Midorima said, running his knuckles up Takao’s jaw to catch a tear.

“Sorry, Shin-chan,” he said, laughing wetly. “I, ah. I’m happy, too.”

Midorima wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close and burying his face in his jersey. Takao’s hand settled atop his head, his fingers slipping into Midorima’s hair. “Shouldn’t this be the other way around?” he asked, voice teasing even through his tears. “I’m the one crying, here.”

Midorima pressed his face as close to his heart as he could get, breathing him in. “No,” he said. “Because I can finally touch you.”

He didn’t mean to say it—didn’t mean the way it came out, anyway, and Takao’s hand stilled in his hair and he swallowed hard. He pulled back a little, searching Takao’s face. “I,” he started, and then found he had no strength to deny the sexual implications it carried, not when Takao was looking down at him like that, eyes wide and blue and framed by dark, wet lashes, so he just swallowed again and asked, “—can I?”

Takao licked his lips. “You can do anything you want to me,” he said, shaky and teasing, but sincere enough to send Midorima’s stomach swooping. He used the hand in Midorima’s hair to pull him up and kiss him hard, his teeth closing on Midorima’s lower lip, and Midorima twitched, the little shock of pain sending heat straight to his dick. Takao licked at the spot he’d bitten, a little slick flicker of tongue, and then purred, “ _please_ do anything you want to me, Shin-chan,” against his jaw. 

Midorima closed his eyes to pull himself together, and when he trusted his voice he said, “go lock the door.”

Takao stilled for a split second, then murmured, “ _fuck_ ,” in a voice low enough Midorima wasn’t even sure he was supposed to hear it and pulled away, crossing to the door in a few quick strides. He turned the lock and Midorima slid his glasses back on so he could properly see him, see the flush to his cheeks, the slick redness of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes—and the weight of his erection, obvious in his loose shorts.

Midorima swallowed and forced his eyes to Takao’s face. “We could wait,” he said with an effort. “If you want. We could slow down, do things properly.”

Takao blinked slow at him, amused. “Properly like dating?” he asked. “I already walk you home every day. You bought me dinner last week. We went to the movies what, a couple weekends ago? We _are_ dating.” 

Midorima scowled at him, his cheeks heating. “I didn’t know if you’d interpreted that dinner as a date.”

Takao grinned wide, his eyebrows going up. “You mean you _meant_ it as one?” He crossed back to him, although he didn’t touch, and for some reason that made Midorima’s mouth go dry. “That’s why it’s not too fast,” Takao said, biting his lip, his eyes sweeping warm across Midorima’s face. “We’ve been dating for ages, it’s only now we’re catching on.”

Midorima slid a hand up under his jersey and over the muscles of his stomach, marveling at the warmth of his skin. “Shut up,” he said, testing.

Takao did—Takao fell entirely silent, licking his lips, and Midorima took a breath. “Take this off,” he said, plucking at the jersey. “Let me see you.”

Takao obeyed immediately, stripping it off over his head, and Midorima ran his eyes over his skin. He’d seen him shirtless plenty of times—naked, several—spent one agonizing week with him at a bathhouse, in the bath, with his eyes sharp-focused anywhere but on Takao’s gorgeous skin, beaded with steam and sweat. But this was different; this was Takao on display for him. He licked his lips. _Please do anything you want to me._

He reached out and drew Takao forward by both wrists, then put his hands on Takao’s waist, marveling at how slim he was, at how perfectly his hips fit against his palms. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the skin above Takao’s heart.

He could feel it beating against his lips. Takao’s hands were skimming over his shoulders and back, and Midorima shifted his mouth against his skin, nipping and licking, working out what Takao liked by the little breathy noises he was making. He closed his lips over Takao’s nipple and worked it with his tongue, shifted one hand up to thumb over the other. “Sh-shin-chan,” Takao managed, and he reached down to lift Midorima’s glasses up into his hair. Midorima scowled against his skin and bit him for it, and that made Takao’s hips twist, made him spit, “ _shit_ —“

Midorima sucked hard at the place he’d bitten and then pulled back. “I can make you curse, too,” he observed, running his fingers over the slick spots he’d left on Takao’s muscle. He leaned in again to lick at Takao’s abs.

Takao twitched and laughed. “Y-you gonna tell me to shut up again,” he asked, his hands in Midorima’s hair, urging him on. “Because that’d be—pretty hard for me—“

Midorima shook his head. He had one hand splayed against the small of Takao’s back, and he slid the other one around to cup Takao’s cock through his shorts. “No,” he said. “I want to hear you.”

He looked up. Takao had his lip caught between his teeth, his head lifted like he wanted to tilt it back but couldn’t quite manage to tear his eyes away from what was happening at his waist. There was color high in his cheeks and his eyes were wide with disbelief. “Sh-shin, ngh, your hand—“

Midorima raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, that _was_ deliberate.” He shifted his fingers, tracing the outline of Takao’s cock. It was so warm, warm even through the fabric. He licked his lips.

Takao shook his head. “Y-your _left_ ,” he managed, like he thought somehow Midorima hadn’t noticed.

Midorima held his eyes and slipped his fingers into the waistband of his shorts. “Yes,” he said again, “that was _deliberate._ ” He wanted to ask why he would trust this to imperfect fingers, why he would touch Takao with anything but the best of himself, but he couldn’t figure out how to form any words in the face of the way that Takao was staring down at him—lips slick and loose, pupils hugely, impossibly dark. He pushed Takao’s shorts down his thighs and wrapped his fingers around him, and Takao curled down over him with a little breathless “ _oh._ ”

Midorima craned up to kiss him and Takao moaned into his mouth as he started to work his hand. Takao’s skin was velvet-soft against his palm, his kisses desperate, his muscles shaking as Midorima kept him close, shifting the hand from his back up and into his hair, possessive. He was so used to seeing the beauty of Takao’s movement; being able to _feel_ it was intoxicating. 

Takao broke their kiss to murmur, “Shi-in-chan, _please_ ,” and Midorima tightened the hand in his hair ‘til he gasped, his head tilting back. Midorima bit at the tendons in his throat, remembering the way he’d twitched and shuddered, and shifted his grip, speeding up. Takao’s hips twisted and he started thrusting against Midorima’s palm, his hands clutching ineffectually at Midorima’s shoulders. 

Midorima kissed his way to his ear, his hand still clutched tight at the base of Takao’s skull. “Beautiful,” he murmured, because he could, because he no longer had to keep these things to himself. Takao made a little disbelieving noise and Midorima released him, slipping gentle fingers into his hair and letting him shove his face into his neck, letting him breathe harsh and wet against the corner of his jaw. 

“You can’t just—s-say shit like that,” said Takao with a broken, breathless kind of laugh that was the hottest thing Midorima had ever heard in his life. He closed his eyes and ran his thumb over the head of Takao’s cock.

“Beautiful,” he said again, and Takao shook against him, Takao wrapped his arms around him like he might need him to stand and Midorima felt shaky and desperate himself, desperate to feel him come, to have made him come. “Fucking _gorgeous_ ,” he murmured, putting all his need, his sincerity, his months of longing into his voice, and Takao breathed, “oh my _god_ ,” against his throat and his hips stutter-snapped against Midorima’s hand and his hands spasmed against Midorima’s back, his whole body was a bowstring snapped tight—and then his legs gave out, and Midorima really was holding him up.

Takao spent a minute just letting him, just clinging, just muttering, “oh my god, oh my god,” against his jaw, and when he finally let go to sink to his knees he looked—amazing, laughing and dazed and flushed with pleasure, his hair wild from Midorima’s hand. He stared at Midorima’s face for a long moment, shaking his head a little, and then dropped his chin.

Midorima followed his gaze to his hand, slick with Takao’s come. He was looking around for something to clean it with when Takao leaned forward. Without even touching Midorima with his hands he wrapped his lips around two of his fingers, letting his eyes slip closed as he slid his tongue against them, between them, thorough and teasing. He sucked at them tantalizingly for a minute and then pulled off, lifting heavy lashes to look at him. He left his mouth open, a little, like he was waiting.

Midorima swallowed hard and slid his next two fingers into his mouth. 

Takao grinned at him around them, and the combination of the warmth of his eyes and the warmth of his _mouth_ made Midorima’s hips lift of their own accord. Takao’s eyebrows went up, and he turned Midorima’s hand so he could lick and suck at his palm, cleaning him up completely. Midorima licked his lips again and again, unable to take his eyes off the slick laughing curl of his mouth. “Takao,” he said.

Takao pressed a last kiss to his palm, as gentle as the first, as gentle as only he could be, and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want something, Shin-chan?” he asked, innocent.

“Takao,” Midorima said again, remembering the way he’d gone silent when told to shut up, remembering the way he’d cursed when Midorima had ordered him to lock the door. He took a breath and tried to sound commanding. “Suck me off.”

Takao went wide-eyed, his throat working as he swallowed, and then went red. “Um,” he said in a small voice, and pressed a hand over his eyes.

Midorima felt himself blush in response, and glared at him to cover his embarrassment. Had he somehow fucked this up? Did he sound stupid? Surely Takao hadn’t been expecting anything else—

“Sorry,” Takao said, his hand still over his eyes, “sorry, just—give me a minute.” He licked his lips, and said softly to his own wrist, “you have no _idea_ how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

Midorima stared at him. “You imagined—?”

Takao took his hand away from his face to smirk up at him, though his cheeks were still bright. “Sure,” he said. “Didn’t you?” His smirk grew. “Do you touch yourself to thoughts of me, Shin-chan?”

Midorima licked his lips, thinking quickly, because he _hadn’t_ , not beyond little guilty flashes, but it wasn’t out of lack of interest, if anything it was the opposite. He raised a shoulder in an awkward shrug. “I don’t particularly see the point of self-pleasure,” he said, “and my imagination is not so good that I could ever convince myself you would be interested.”

Takao sat back on his heels, blinking at him. “Disregarding the second part of your statement as _literally insane_ —you don’t masturbate?”

Midorima glared at him. “I have, but no, I don’t make a habit of it. Like I said, I could never convince myself—“

“And you didn’t have anything else to think about? Previous experiences?” Takao pressed.

Midorima just stared at him.

Takao stared back, unblinking. “Shin-chan.”

Midorima took a breath, looking away. “I never—wanted anyone. Before you.”

Takao was silent. When Midorima got up the courage to look at him he had his eyes closed, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, his nostrils flaring as he took small, rapid breaths. “Okay,” he said, a little strangled. “I’m going to open my eyes, and then I am going to suck you off, and I am going to be the first person to ever suck you off. Yeah?”

Midorima swallowed. “Yes,” he said simply.

Takao took a long, trembling breath. “Right,” he said, and opened his eyes. He shifted forward on his knees and leaned up to kiss Midorima, sliding shaking fingers along his jaw. Midorima caught his hand and held it, and Takao kissed him gently, persistently, his soft, clever mouth pulling Midorima right back to the squirming, needy place he’d been before they’d paused, but somehow without the desperation, somehow—warm.

Takao nuzzled along his jaw to kiss the skin below his ear, and then stopped. Midorima felt the brush of his lashes against his cheek that meant he’d opened his eyes. “Hang on,” he said, sounding almost offended, “you’re telling me you gave me a handjob like that not only never having touched anyone else’s dick before, but not even regularly touching your own?”

Midorima smirked and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, “I did use my left hand.”

Takao laughed, loud and startled, and Midorima smiled wider, running his hands up Takao’s throat to thumb at his mouth. “You made a joke,” Takao said wonderingly. “Now I know this is a dream.”

“If this is a dream,” Midorima murmured, watching his thumb disappear between Takao’s lips, “it is absolutely one of mine.” Takao sucked at his fingers and he fought the urge to moan, said instead, “Takao. I believe I requested something of you.”

Takao swallowed. “Impatient,” he teased, but he slid his hands under Midorima’s jersey and leaned away so he could tug it off, closing in again as soon as the fabric was out of the way. His hands were everywhere, skimming over Midorima’s skin, his nails sliding sharp against his ribs, just this side of the pain/pleasure line, and Midorima felt like maybe this was the only time he’d ever known what it meant to, to be touched, to feel skin against his skin. Takao licked and nipped at his hipbone and he buried his hands in Takao’s hair, pulling him closer, needing _more_ , and Takao slipped one of his hands into Midorima’s shorts and wrapped his fingers around him and drew him out, and Midorima nearly swallowed his own tongue.

Takao licked his lips, flicking his eyes upward to meet Midorima’s gaze. Midorima thought for a moment he might say something—there was a nervousness and a tenderness in his eyes that made Midorima’s heart stutter in his chest—but he just shook his head and leaned down, and then Midorima couldn’t think anything at all, couldn’t look at anything but the stretch of his lips and the sweep of his eyelashes, couldn’t do anything but fist his hands tight in his hair and _breathe_ , his whole body reduced to a trembling, shivering reaction to the impossible warmth of Takao’s mouth. Takao pulled off to lick at the head of his cock and the sight of his tongue against Midorima’s skin nearly undid him by itself. 

“Takao,” he said, and it came out rough and low, warning and needing and _awed_. Takao slid his nails over the length of him not rapidly disappearing again into the hot slick suction of his mouth and Midorima fell apart.

When he blinked the darkness from his eyes Takao was sitting back on his heels again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Midorima trembled and ached and needed to be touching him, reached for him, drew him close with insistent hands. Takao wrapped his arms around him and Midorima had no idea how he’d ever survived having him any further away than this.

They got dressed slowly, lazily. Takao kept stopping him to kiss various bits of his exposed skin, and half the time Midorima would fight him off and half the time he would give in and kiss back, and by the time they made it out of the locker room and onto the train it was dark and cold. Takao huddled close to him, wormed a hand into his pocket, and Midorima ran his thumb over his pulse-point again and again.

By unspoken agreement they didn’t separate, but ordered a sleepy dinner to go and ate it curled onto Takao’s couch, half-dressed and half-hard and half-awake. Midorima felt—happy, so happy, so consistently and thrummingly and _peacefully_ happy that it took him several tries to really name it as such. 

He fell into bed and Takao curled naked against his side and he thought that perhaps what he’d been calling happiness before somehow wasn’t; that had been a lightning-strike, short-lived kind of joy, and this—this ran deep and slow and perfect.

“I was starting to think you had a thing for Kise,” Takao said into the darkness.

Midorima blinked his eyes open, frowning. “What?”

Takao shifted. There was enough light from the street outside that Midorima could just see him—pale skin and shadowed muscle, like a pen-and-ink drawing. “Well,” he said, “you kept staring at him, and then you went and talked to him and when I saw you afterward you were blushing, and then you mentioned he was gay, and then you went to see him without me! What was I supposed to think? Plus, like.” He shrugged. “It’s Kise. If you were going to be attracted to anyone…”

Midorima frowned harder. “He is aesthetically pleasing, I suppose.”

Takao raised an eyebrow at him. “He’s a professional model, Shin-chan. He’s so hot he gets paid for it.”

Midorima glared at him. “Takao.”

Takao smirked. “Am I making you jealous?”

Midorima clenched his jaw at the stupidity of the question. “I was blushing because I was talking to Kise about _you_ ,” he said.

Takao sat up a little, staring at him. “Shin-chan. Then—in the restaurant—”

Midorima nodded, feeling his cheeks heat. “I was waiting for you to ask,” he said quietly. “You asked if Kise was in love, and then I thought you would ask about me, too.”

He saw the little bob of Takao’s throat, reached out to touch it. Takao caught his wrist, holding it still, like he couldn’t bear to be distracted from his intense study of Midorima’s face. “If I had,” he said, the tiniest of shakes to his voice, “what would you have said?”

Midorima held his eyes, his chest tight. “Yes,” he said, barely more than a whisper. 

Takao took a little breath, his fingers loosening on Midorima’s wrist, and Midorima reached out, cupped his cheek. “Takao,” he started, voice thick.

Takao was nodding before he even spoke another syllable, curling upwards to take Midorima’s face in his hands. “Yes,” he said against his mouth. “Yes, I love you. I _love_ you.”

Midorima—filled up with new emotion that he barely had a name for, drunk on the way Takao’s heart beat wildly against his, and absolutely certain that this— _this_ —was where he was always meant to be—

Midorima believed him.


End file.
